


Stress Writings

by MooksMookin



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-07-26 03:22:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7558222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooksMookin/pseuds/MooksMookin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>some stuff i write when im stressed</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hurt

It hurt.

It hurt. It hurt. It hurt.

A black hole in his chest, consuming his lungs, his heart.

Tears were forming in his eyes. They fell; he couldn’t stop them. They felt heavy, like lead, like steel.

His name was being called, but he couldn’t hear. Everything was static. His eyes blurred, twisting and turning his sight into an unrecognizable scene.

It wasn’t real, he tried to convince himself.

It hurt too much to not be real, he reasoned.

Anxiety. Emptiness.

There was no reason. He shouldn’t feel this way. He knew; he knew; he knew. All along, he knew. Why couldn’t he see the truth? Why couldn’t he see it coming.

(He did. He chose to ignore it.)

He stumbled, and he fell, the ground shattering beneath him as blackness overtook and surrounded him.

A knife to the heart. A shotgun to the chest.

It hurt. It hurt. It hurt.

It hurt.


	2. Ashes

Lips tightened into a thin line. They opened once, but closed without saying a word. There was a sinking feeling in his chest. He felt it coming. He knew it was coming. It was always the same. There was a hand around his, but he couldn't feel it. He didn't know how to feel it. He didn't know if it was even there. Forever doubting its existence. He felt lost, empty - a corpse inside of a living body. Yet he felt too real. The pain consumed him to a point where he could barely feel it. A constant cycle of life and death within him.

There was a smile beaming at him, but the warmth was lost in the chill of his skin. There were lips pressed up against his forehead. It burned. He wanted to flinch away, but he couldn't move. Instead, he brought up a hand, anchoring it onto the others shirt, trying to ground himself. He felt that he could float away at any moment, but at the same time, be dragged down, down down, beneath the floorboards and into the center of the earth, where he'd be burned to ashes.

His eyes couldn't see. Everything was dark and blurry. He could barely make out the figure in front of him. He wasn't sure what to do. He couldn't push. He couldn't pull. He was stuck in a world of limbo, bending backwards as far as he could without breaking. But it was difficult, when the bar was set so low, the stakes set so high. He couldn't let go. He didn't want to let go.

The sweet words being whispered to him went silent. The hand was no longer holding his. The warm smile was no longer beaming at him. The lips were no longer pressed against him. His hand, the one that was anchoring him, was forced to let go. He almost felt like laughing, as the figure that he couldn't even see anymore walked away from him. Tears welled up and burned his eyes, spilling over onto his cheeks, dripping down onto the floor. It was almost ironic.

He burned to ashes.

 


	3. Sick

“You make me _sick._ ”

There’s tears welling up in his eyes, the feeling of bile rising up in his throat, his stomach plummeting down, down, down. The eyes that look at him are unapologetic, terrifyingly cold, _numb._

“Do you even _care?_ ” His voice comes out as a whisper now. “What you’ve done to me - did you give _anything_ a second thought? Did you not _once_ consider that what you’ve done was _wrong?_ ” He stumbles forward, the tears escaping as he grabs the front of the other’s shirt. " _Apologize._ Why didn’t you just _apologize?_ Why didn’t you _understand?_ Why did you lie, lie, lie, lie, _lie-”_

His words tumble into incomprehensible sobs. He can’t speak anymore. There’s an invisible hand grabbing his neck, choking the life and tears out of him.

 _It’s your fault._ The words are whispered in their voice. _It’s your fault. It’s your fault. It’s all your fault._

“ _You’re wrong!”_ He cries out. “You’re _wrong!_ I didn’t do anything, I was just taking care of my _self-”_

_It’s your fault._

_You could’ve tried harder._

Thousands of hands are coming up, grabbing onto his arms, legs, chest, feet, _neck -_ pulling him down, down, down. “You’re wrong,” he sobs. “You’re wrong.”

_I’m not a bad person._

_I just make bad choices._

**_What’s so unforgivable about that?_ **

And like that - the light is put out. Darkness envelops. Static silence.

There’s nothing left anymore.


End file.
